


Norman

by conormonaghan



Category: Bates Motel RPF, Freddie Highmore - Fandom
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dominance, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gay Sex, Humiliation, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Obsession, Oral Sex, Sex Toys, Submission, Underwear Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 16:11:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14382243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conormonaghan/pseuds/conormonaghan
Summary: Freddie Highmore romances a young woman he meets on set. There is also a boy named Tommy.





	1. Hawksworth

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> You can read early drafts of my future chapters and my other work at www.conormonaghan.com

“What if I told you that you are the first woman I’ve dated in the business?”

“Then you would be lying to me.”

Freddie laughs. His smile manages to excite even the dimly lit ambience of Hawksworth, where he is seated across from her, enjoying mixed cuisine: seared Japanese squid, dry-aged beef striploin, a side of mixed vegetables. Four glasses on the table, two for water and two for wine, his white and hers red.

“Allow me a second attempt: I regret that you were not the first woman I dated in the business.”

“Are you telling me that you regret dating all of those beautiful actresses?”

“I’m telling you that not one of them was quite like you.”

Freddie takes a sip of his wine.

“That seems premature. After all, you’ve only known me for a few days.”

“I know enough. I like to believe that I have a way of mapping people out. I can tell that you’re different.”

“Are you saying that I’m special?”

“Surely, you don’t need me to tell you that.”

They had crossed paths yesterday on the set of The Good Doctor. The romantic in him would insist that he had watched her since his very first day on set, yet the truth of the matter was that he had not once even noticed her at all. In fact, she seemed to materialize out of thin air the day before when, after a grueling day of production, she drifted up behind him and called his name. He imagines that at the time his face was gaunt, doused in sweat, and that when he turned around to meet her eyes, he was masking his exhaustion with a feeble and unconvincing smile. Yet, she was resolute. She was flirtatious. She engaged him in a full conversation, though about what he cannot recall specifically, yet he remembers that her words were doused with artificial calm, as if fanatical excitement to be in his presence were oppressed into nothing more than a kind smile and gentle voice. She was beautiful, heir to the same stunning blue eyes as he, but with long, gorgeous blonde hair. She occupied the body of a model and with her heels, at this moment tucked beneath the white tablecloth of their private table, she stood eye-to-eye with Freddie Highmore, just shy of six feet in his oxfords.

“May I ask you a question?” she asks.

“Of course, anything.”

“What are you looking for?”

The question is hilariously trite, but he indulges it. Truth be told, he was looking for her. He had not enjoyed the company of any women, especially not in bed, in quite some time. His new role as Shaun Murphy, the autistic savant surgeon, consumed his life. Indeed, he was prone to overindulging the minds and bodies of the characters he inhabited on screen, often leaving him detached from the real world, from ordinary social interaction. Yet, that was what he cherished about his career, exploring the minds of others.

The question proves surprisingly formidable. The hourglass atop the table flickers, marking the passing of time with its seductive dance. He opts for the same triteness in response.

“I suppose I’m looking for someone that makes me feel,” Freddie finally responds.

“Makes you feel what?”

“Anything.”

A glimpse of that Highmore smile, as his eyes retreat from hers in light embarrassment, hand combing the linen surface of the table. The air is sultry, scented with rosemary.

“That doesn’t sound like a very high bar for human interaction,” she argues.

“I disagree. I think life is just about letting people, and the time you spend with them, take you places.”

With this remark, he finally rejoins her gaze, cheeks slightly flush, and stares deeply into her eyes. Gazing back at him, she sees fire in his eyes, though whether from the candle upon their table, those at nearby tables, or some other source entirely, she is unsure.

“Would you say that is why you choose the type of roles that you do, to take you places.”

“What ‘types’ of roles might those be?” Freddie asks.

“You seem to have a proclivity for portraying disturbed, or at least, abnormal, men.”

“I wouldn’t call Charlie Bucket strange. Disadvantaged, perhaps,” Freddie replies with a grin. Levity is kin to the man of mystery.

She laughs. “To be fair, I did say ‘men’, so I think we can limit the discussion to recent roles. Mister Murphy isn’t your typical man. As for Norman, well, I doubt I need to elaborate.”

“If we’re bringing Norman into the conversation, then surely we’ve committed to extending the conversation beyond just men. Norman enjoys the feminine designs and desires on occasion, after all.”

“Would you say that you relate to Norman?”

Freddie laughs nervously. “Perhaps not in that regard, but I think it’s fair to say that I identify with him on some level.” His eyes nervously skip in and out of step with hers as he is speaking. “I possess a similar respect for women. I love my mother. For the most part, I’m quiet, introverted. I prefer to think that I’m not quite so disturbed, while at the same time believing that there is a lot that people don’t know about me.”

“What does the world not know about the mysterious Freddie Highmore?” she asks rhetorically.

“Perhaps you’ll find out,” he says with a shadowy stare and an odd delivery that is at the same time characteristically polished and abnormally grave. Perhaps Freddie is aware how darkly suggestive the comment is originating from him, an aberration, as his head twitches involuntarily after making the remark.

She sips her drink, silently measuring her response.

“I have a difficult time separating Freddie from Norman.”

“Well, we do look alike.”

That smile again.

“I believe you two are even more similar than you’re admitting to me now. At least, I hope so,” she finishes, this time with her own air of concealed mystery.

“Why is that?”

“I’m not sure that you really want to know.”

“Why else would I ask?” Freddie questions. He decides that he is finished with his meal, places the steak knife and fork in his hands onto his plate, and drains the remaining wine from his glass.

“Well, maybe I’m just too embarrassed to say.”

She observes his actions carefully, struggling internally with indecision. He makes no move to respond to her latest comment, sos he assumes that is going to force her to vocalize her thoughts. Analyzing his features, she deliberates over what narrative to draw for him, imagining where each story might lead.

“I used to watch Bates Motel alone by myself at night. It’s the only way I watched it, really. There was something about watching it at night, alone on my couch, with the lights turned off, that transported me into the show. I would imagine that I was Emma, spending time with you, or Norman, I guess, in the show. That was enough, just spending time with him. I didn’t need to be the center of his attraction. At first.

“Have you noticed how it’s always grey and rainy in the show? Well, there is something about that dreariness that amplified Norman’s loneliness and isolation, his relatability, to me. I would imagine laying in bed with him on those rainy days. We would just lay in bed and talk and I would sit there and enjoy his contact and his warmth. I only spent half of my time imagining him with that innocent smile; the other half I indulged his darker half. Eventually, I felt like I knew him, understood his disturbed character, like I could help him, like I was drawn to his darker qualities. I fantasized about him taking advantage of me, while I was lying there on the couch. I believe a lot of women are looking for men like Norman. I believe there are a lot of women who watch the show just to imagine Norman taking advantage of them. To imagine you taking advantage of them.

“I suppose that’s how fanfiction is born,” she finishes, discarding what had transitioned into a suggestive whisper of an admission for lightheartedness. Blindsided, Freddie stares back at her, his face a soup of nervous hormonal excitement and genuine bewilderment. Perhaps she is not the first woman to bear an attraction to one of his on-screen characters, but she is the first to so boldly tell him to his face, certainly the first to flaunt a strange fascination with the more disturbed shades of Norman to his face.

In the end, he opts for levity as well.

“That’s interesting. I always figured that women just watched the show hoping to see Max Thieriot naked.”


	2. Drive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> You can read early drafts of my future chapters and my other work at www.conormonaghan.com

He massages her smooth perfumed hand. Their joined hands are nestled on his thigh, obscured by the shadows in the rear partition of the Range Rover. The passing streetlights take turns dancing with the darkness, exposing their modest physical contact, refreshingly intimate; and painting the face of Freddie Highmore a warm orange, emphasizing, and then concealing again, the mercurial mix of passion and stoicism, the smooth, forbidden preteen complexion. Freddie is twenty-five years old.

He is accompanying her for the ride home. He briefly speculates about where she might reside, having missed her directions to his chauffeur. Peering outside the window, he concludes that they must be headed somewhere on the outskirts of the city, as the familiar streets checkering his condominium have long since disappeared, and even for late on Saturday night, the roads are largely devoid of moving vehicles.

His mind wanders, soaking in the remaining moments of the strange night. The superficial smells and sounds and images of the evening have been romantic, yet something about the encounter, in spite of its formality and its cliches, seems still mysterious, submerged beneath the surface and indecipherable to him.

Raindrops tiptoe the surface of the moving vehicle, peeking in through the windows from the frigid Vancouver night in search of, what, warmth? It is altogether a scene that you may be familiar with, drawn from this film or that film, yet the quiet whispers of the falling drops hint at something more sinister materializing in the night.

Freddie wrestles with the lonely drive home that awaits, the empty bed, the long work week ahead. His mind imagines that his only hope for respite is seated next to him, yet it also restrains him with a false sense of ambivalence, a voice that tries to convince him that he is off-put by her honesty, her bizarre obsession with Norman and with him, as if it didn’t in fact conform to his own fantasies. Yes, he longed for her body. He longed to kiss her. To touch her. To defile her.

“I had a lovely time with you tonight,” Freddie whispers.

She turns to face him, taking the measure of the boy in the dark.

“Are you always so proper, or is this just for tonight?”

“I was raised to be proper. I enjoy treating women with respect...most of the time.”

“Are you implying that you treat women without respect sometimes?”

Freddie stares at her darkened silhouette. His ambivalence has vanished, replaced by something indescribable.

“I’m implying that I enjoy it.”

“How does one earn your disrespect?” she asks.

“She just has to want it,” Freddie whispers, leaning in to kiss her. The kiss is tempting, just a light embrace with lips impossibly softer than even her own, delicately moist, sensual, but without tongue, extracting the faintest layer of her red lipstick, just barely visible on Freddie’s lips in the night’s light.

“You can admit the truth to me, you know,” Freddie whispers after severing the intimate connection.

“The truth about what?” she asks, voice unsteady, perhaps caught off guard for the first time tonight.

“The truth. That you aren’t part of the film crew. That you don’t know Eric Steelberg. That you don’t know David Shore. That you don’t know me. That you haven’t worked on set these past few months. That you didn’t fall for Freddie Highmore watching me off screen, that you don’t know anything about me. That you never once stepped foot on the set of The Good Doctor before this morning.”

At this point, he pauses to read her reaction. It’s illegible in the dark.

“You can admit to me that you’re just another fan. Another fan who came here tonight knowing that you don’t have a chance of dating me. You know tonight is the only night you’ll spend with me, because whatever tricks you played to sneak onto set today won’t work again. Not after I tell security about you.”

She remains silent, though she’s shaking. He tightens his vice like grip on her hand and uses it to guide her hand up the thigh of his suit pants, drawing her forcibly closer to him as he kisses her neck, whispering.

“I know you trusted me with some truths also. I know you really do stay up late at night watching Bates Motel, fantasizing about Norman, fantasizing about me, don’t you?

“You don’t understand him. You don’t want to understand him. You don’t want to help him. You just want to take advantage of him, to linger around long enough to lure him into taking advantage of you, don’t you?

Freddie leans in to kiss her again, but this time, the delicate embrace evolves into something more primal. He sucks her on her lower lip, softly at first, but with increasing intensity, pinching it gently between his teeth, just enough to draw a drop of blood, before sliding his tongue into her mouth.

Freddie slides his right hand into her dress, exploring her bra-clad breasts. At the same time, he wields his tongue gently, but persuasively, staking claim to her body so subtly that she might believe she initiated the interaction. Perhaps she did. He withdraws from the kiss, but his lips remain within an inch of hers.

“Tell me about your fantasies with Norman.”

He draws their lips together for a moment.

“Do you dream about my blue eyes? My soft hair? Do you like teenage boys?”

He licks her upper lip.

“Maybe you’re not so different from Norman, yourself. Maybe you imagine watching me change my clothes through a hole in the wall. Do you watch me take my shirt off, pull it over my head? What about my pants? Do you watch me take those off as well? Do you keep watching even when I’m standing there in my underwear? Maybe you even wait until I take a shower, so that you can watch my underwear fall to the floor as well, so you can see my naked smooth body. Maybe all you really fantasize about is my penis.”

He slips his hand beneath her bra. Her lips are still open, desperate for his to return.

“Yeah, that’s it. You’re here because you saw what looked like a cute teenage boy on a TV show, and you wanted some of his cock. It’s bigger than you think, you know. My penis. Bigger than most boys.”

His lips do return. He nibbles on her lower lip and, runs his tongue across her teeth.

“I’m not an innocent boy. I do things at night when no one’s watching.”

He pinches her right nipple sharply.

“Do you want me to do things to you?”

Her silence finally breaks. The faintest moan escapes her lips to mingle with the drops of rain in the night.


	3. Tommy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> You can read early drafts of my future chapters and my other work at www.conormonaghan.com

He is five foot ten inches tall. Just shy of six feet in dress shoes, oxfords, US size 10. His skin is a creamy white, smooth, often free of any blemishes, while his hair is a wavy, rich brunette. He speaks English, French, and Spanish fluently, and loves to read. During his vacations, his destination of choice is southern France.

He arrives on set early, every single day. He often comes outfitted in business casual, navy jeans or black slacks, paired with a meticulously pressed striped dress shirt, in contrast to his colleagues who arrive to early morning shoots in pajama pants and cotton jersey shirts. His clothes are perfectly fitted, always, and absent any dust or other particles, as if he carries a lint roller around in his pocket at all times. His dress is refined, polished, but not necessarily trendy, opting instead for a classical sophistication married with a modern fit.

He takes coffee black, and often pairs it with a plain bagel. He eats only one full meal on set most days, usually midway between lunch and dinner, enjoying scattered snacks throughout. He enjoys authentic Italian cuisine, but his preferred meal on set is Chinese takeout.

His voice is boyishly masculine, deep enough to indicate pubescence, but awkward enough to still hail from those adolescent years, prone to audible cracking under excitement. His choice of language is abnormally proper, easily interchangeable with the rigid formality of his on-screen characters, a Shaun Murphy, or a Norman Bates.

He is introverted and has strange tendencies. He smiles perhaps too often, and the smile itself is suspiciously authentic, as if he is always overjoyed to be conversing with you, regardless of who you are or the subject matter. He can be seen talking to himself when he thinks no one is watching. He twitches his neck involuntarily on occasion and can be seen blinking his eyes too frequently, two of his obsessive ticks.

He uses the restroom three to four times on a full day of filming. He only ever urinates in the shared restrooms on set, and only ever in the stalls, often lingering in the stall afterwards for an absurd length of time, standing. I have a thousand different ideas of what he may be doing, but I can’t say for sure.

As for his underwear, he prefers boxer shorts. Every Bates Motel viewer can verify this, as they have glimpsed him nearly naked for a brief moments in a pair of baby blue boxer shorts, but even the truth is that even on set, glimpses of his underwear are rare. Occasionally, he may raise his hands unexpectedly when filming or conversing on set, pulling ups shirt just enough to reveal the waistband of his underwear. From these moments, I have accounted for: a pair of green plaid boxer shorts, and a pair of red plaid boxer shorts.

I know these things because I work on the set of The Good Doctor. My name is Tommy. I’m 25 years old.

I dropped out of NYU at age 21. I have always wanted to work in the film industry. My dream is to become a director. I chose to attend NYU, mainly so that I could mingle with the film executives and peripheral industry figures who make their way in and out of New York. Sure, the obvious choice might seem to be Los Angeles, but that mentality is why I figured that I had a better shot in New York. Plus, the mystique of New York, the center of the world, the city of possibility, was something that had always interested me. At any rate, I did manage to make several connections there over time, which eventually led me to a gig with a producer in Los Angeles who needed an assistant and knew I wanted to break into the industry. So, I made my way to Los Angeles after all, and as soon as I got off the plane, I could call myself an industry insider.

Perhaps industry insider is an optimistic interpretation of my status upon landing though, because when I say that this producer needed an assistant, I mean that he truly needed an assistant. A servant. I spent my early days in Los Angeles fetching coffee, buying groceries, sending out invitations, organizing documents, scheduling his days, anything you might imagine a secretary might do. In most regards, the tasks were mundane, but I was ecstatic because I had my foot in the door, and I knew that no matter how insignificant the task, it was an opportunity to brush shoulders with the Hollywood elite. I planned to follow the swiftest route to fulfill my dreams, regardless of where it took me, and after a few months it did take me places, first to Calabasas, and then, six months later, to the set of The Good Doctor in Vancouver.

I’ll avoid detailing exactly what I do on the set of The Good Doctor, because in truth most would not find the job to be very glamorous. But I absolutely love it. Yes, I love my work. This is my first true opportunity to work as part of an actual film crew. Each and every day, I get to interact with new people and expand my network within the industry. I even demand a small modicum of respect, insofar as I get to order around several inferiors, half a dozen people in their early 20s, who are more or less me six months ago.

I suppose I should describe myself. I’m six feet tall, lanky, with smooth, pale skin, absent any major blemishes. I have dark brown hair, which I am told appears soft, moderately voluminous, slightly curly, which I tend to brush to one side. I style my hair in a way that projects tidiness, but not a business-level formalism. I prefer a matte look and shy away from high-shine gels. My outfit to work is business casual. I have aqueous blue eyes, which people have a tendency to stare into, to drown in. My lips are modest, a pale baby pink, and they appear damp to the naked eye. Truth be told, I look a lot like Norman Bates.

Of course, I never understood the comparison the first time that someone jokingly referred to me as such on my very first day on set. I certainly knew of the character Norman Bates, from Hitchcock’s Psycho, but I had never seen a single episode of Bates Motel, and I had never met Freddie Highmore, the star of the show for which I was now working, though I had seen Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

At any rate, I quickly learned about Freddie Highmore, and frankly, the comparisons are fairly apt. I also learned more about the Norman of Bates Motel, which I began watching each night while curled up on the couch of my apartment with the lights turned out. I developed a deep connection to his character. I felt like I knew Norman Bates, like he was someone I should have met when I was younger. We might have been close friends. Further, hanging around at the periphery of Freddie Highmore five or more days a week on set, I realized that Freddie himself was not so different than the Norman he played on screen, that he shared the same tendencies and mannerisms, and that perhaps he was not so different from me, either.

I like women. I have not had any long term relationships with women, probably because I tend towards introversion. I’m shy, I close myself off, especially when it comes to emotionally intimate situations with women, but I have always pictured myself with women, masturbated to women, had sex with women. Yes, I have sex with women. I lost my virginity when I was still in high school, and I have had sex with perhaps a half dozen women since, mostly in college. I haven’t dated any women recently, but I do have sexual adventures frequently, always with the same woman. She’s beautiful. She has long, stunning blonde hair, like you might see in a shampoo commercial. Her eyes are similar to mine, a watery blue. She has perky, symmetric breasts, which more often than not are housed in lacy black bras beneath her clothes.

I met her at a strip club. Now, I’m not the type to frequent strip clubs, but I was dragged there by a few colleagues shortly after arriving in Vancouver. She was of course gorgeous, but what really set things off wasn’t that I found her attractive, but that she seemed to be unusually interested in me. I figured she just wanted money, so after she started dancing on my lap, leaving me both sexually excited and socially embarrassed, I opted to fork over the money for a private room.

In that private room her lap dance evolved into something more. She started by stripping. First she removed her bra. Then she teased down her panties. At some point, I realized that she was waiting for something, that she wanted something more, and that fact awakened something dormant in me, something feral, basely sexual. I don’t recall how our conversation went that night, which words I chose, but I do know that before long she was sitting in the chair across from me, wet, fingering herself, worshipping me, literally begging me to strip off my own articles of clothing, which I did, piece by piece, until I was sitting in front of her in just my blue boxer shorts. I can’t say for sure why she was, is, so attracted to me, though I do speculate. She begged me to fuck her; when I refused, she begged me to let her put her mouth on my cock, to taste it; when I refused, she begged me just to let her see it, that she had never wanted to see someone’s naked body so earnestly, yet I still refused. Instead, I slid my hand down beneath the waistband of my boxers and started masturbating while watching her finger herself, while listening to her beg for my penis. I climaxed within minutes, and shot my load into my boxers. I got dressed without cleaning myself up, and left without a word.

I returned to the strip club, alone, the following week. She eventually spotted me, and she looked vaguely horrified, too embarrassed to come near me a second time. But I stayed there, sat, and every time she gambled on an off-hand glance in my direction, I was there watching her. Eventually, I made my way to the private room, alone. A few minutes later, she appeared. This time we didn’t exchange words. I just sat down and she sat down across from me and she slowly stripped each and every article of clothing off for my eyes. I sat there watching her. Her eyes were so desperate to undress me. I acquiesced. I stripped each piece of clothing off, except my boxers, and sat down. I slid my hand into my boxers and jerked off.

She liked to watch me masturbate.

That became our routine. At least once a week. We never talk. I never pay her. Afterwards, she returns to the floor and continues her night with other customers, and I go home.

I recall one night, several months in, she spoke for the first time since the night we met. She spoke in a charged whisper, as she was moving a dildo in and out of her pussy. It was a question. She just wanted to know what she had to do to see my penis. That’s all. This stripper, who made her well-being from teasing guys, was shaky and desperate to see my cock. She wasn’t begging for money. She wasn’t begging for me to stick my cock in her pussy or mouth, though I know that she was desperate for those things as well. After all this time, she just wanted to see me naked, consume and discard my naked body the same way I did with her cheap carcass week after week. She would do anything for that opportunity. The words were desperately genuine, steeped in the tragic honest of irrepressible sexual longing. It was heartbreaking coming from a woman as beautiful as her, directed towards someone like me, reasonably attractive but mundane and boyish.

I ignored her, at first.


	4. Bates Motel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> You can read early drafts of my future chapters and my other work at www.conormonaghan.com

Even disguised by the night, the room is unbecoming. An 8x12 motel room, at least three decades old, on the outskirts of town, with little more than an old microwave, plastic icebox, and CRT television ornamenting its interior. The room smells of smoke, but an aged smoke lingering long after its creators have moved on, persisting even over the pungent recency of fresh cleaning agents, Clorox, ammonia.

It’s probably fortunate, Freddie imagines. No one will recognize me here.

Her dress lies discarded in a mound near the door, concealing her well-worn heels. Nearby sit his oxfords, one on its side, hastily shed. Breadcrumbs trace a short path from the motel door to the bed: suit jacket, belt, pleated dress pants, socks.

They are in the bed, kissing furiously on top of the covers. She is wearing nothing but black lingerie, a C-cup bra and bikini panties, lacy and translucent. Freddie is covered in a thin layer of sweat, suspended above her body, propped up on his hands and knees, with precisely three articles of clothing, a pair of blue plaid boxer shorts, his blue dress shirt, now completely unbuttoned, and navy tie, disconnected from the collar of his shirt but still draped around his neck and dangling down to lick her body.

The sexual fervor from the car ride over permeates the scene as he kisses her, tongue relentlessly mapping the insides of her mouth, withdrawing periodically only so that he can drag his teeth across her bruised lower lip. With one hand, he rips the bra off her right breast and squeezes it between his hand.

As the moments pass by, she grows more intense, more passionate, more ferocious, and within the room, dimly lit by the lamp sitting on a bedside table, one can sense a shifting of tides. She rips the unbuttoned shirt down his arms and tosses it on the floor. She runs one hand down his chest, feeling his pectorals and his stomach. He is lean lean but with has traces of love handles. A hand walks down his hairless stomach to the waistband of his underwear. The other digs trails of deep scarlet down his back, claiming it with break of skin.

“Fuck me,” she whispers, slipping her hand into the back of his boxers, grabbing his bare buttocks and displacing his underwear enough to expose his naked right ass cheek to the watching walls of the hotel room.

Freddie moves his mouth down to her nipple, licks it, sucks on it, bites it lightly, as he lowers her panties and then extracts his hard penis from the flap at the front of his boxers. He forgot to bring a condom, but he’s unwilling to jeopardize the situation by dwelling on it. He rubs the leaking head of his cock against her before pushing at her entrance, his mouth alternating between her breasts and her lips.

He slides into her gently, anticipating the moan, the sweet sound of being penetrated by his large cock, of being fucked by a man, being desperate for more, but it never greets him. Instead, another sound shatters the silence of the room, the sound of her hand coming down upon the skin of his bare ass cheek.

His eyes widen in shock as he looks down her in the dimmed light, but she moves her lips up to meet his.

With her tongue, the taste of her, in his mouth, he begins pushing into her again, sinking all seven inches of his penis into her before withdrawing it and repeating the motion again and again. She brings her hand down on his ass a second time, leaving a red crater to match the scratches running down his back.

Freddie moans.

“You like that, don’t you?” Her first words in the motel room.

She pushes his penis out of her and lowers his boxers the rest of the way down his ass, letting them fall and crumple around his knees, which are still planted on the bed. He is still suspended above her warm body, fucking into her. His ass cheeks spread with each thrust just enough to reveal the faintest trace of hair and the shadow of the hole nestled between his cheeks to whatever phantoms eyes may be watching from behind. Beneath his ass, a low-hanging scrotum, swaying back and forth in synchronization with his body.

Her finger gently explores his ass, navigates the cheeks, traces his hole, applies pressure to it. He is no longer kissing her, but she is devouring his lips, tasting them, biting them. Sweat runs down his face.

And then, his eyes are closed. His mouth is hanging open.

Freddie is on his hands and knees as he was just an instant before, but she is no longer beneath him. He is completely naked now. His boxers have been removed. He moans intensely as something penetrates him wholly, something much larger than a finger, something that moves in and out of him as he trembles in pleasure. He cannot see. He doesn’t need to. His eyes are blindfolded, but he knows she is fucking him.

Then he’s alone on the bed of the motel. He can still feel it deep inside of him. It feels warm, lubricated. His tie dangles from his neck, swinging in lock with the softening penis between his legs.


	5. Norman Bates

The thrill.

Watching them exit the black vehicle, Freddie lending her a helping hand as she steps out of the car door into the crying winter night. Peeking out through the blinds of my room, I watch him. He follows her up the icy walkway towards the room adjacent mine, trailing her by a few steps, a conscious decision, to mask his desire. Even in the night, I see the Freddie smile, yet it seems not quite right, hollow, eyes bloodshot, refracting the neon light of the motel sign, and he follows her to the door with this disfigured enthusiasm.

A moment later, they are inside the room, behind closed blinds, invisible to the world.

But not to me. I watch through a hole in the wall.

“Take this pass. It’ll get you on set.”

I ignored her at first, but not forever. Even after all of those months of going to the club and masturbating in front of her, she was so desperate to see my naked body, to see me strip, to see my fat cock. She would push herself to climax every time within minutes of looking at me in my underwear, but why? What was it about me? My smooth chest? My blue eyes? Or just the thought that I had something that she couldn’t see? She must have sat there and pictured what my penis looked like every time while she fucked herself with the dildo, with her fingers. Maybe what drove her crazy was her own sluttiness. There’s a fine line between stripper and prostitute, yet she had devolved into something inferior to both. She fucked herself for my eyes for nothing in return. Nothing except for the pleasure of knowing that she can’t have me.

Then again, isn’t that what drives us all crazy? It drove me crazy day after day, watching Freddie walk around with that radiant smile, too proper for his own good. I was always desperate to catch a glimpse of his naked body, for a second even, and if not his naked body, then something more than just the waistband of his boxer shorts. Please, let them film a sex scene, and if that won’t do, bless me with the opportunity to see him changing on set. I just want to see his underwear, just to confirm that his near-naked body hasn’t changed since the days of Bates Motel. If even that is too much to ask, let him use the urinal just once instead of the stall, so that my eyes might bear witness to something new and erotic, the image of his underwear pulled down in the front, the trace of pubic hair above the waistband, the shadow of his penis.

I am obsessed with him. His boyish looks and smooth body and misplaced propriety confirm to me what I already knew: Freddie is Norman Bates. Inside, he is tortured, a tragic fixture in God’s disturbed erotica.

Yes, I am disfigured. I admit it! But so are you.

So I sent her to meet him, to entice him, to lead him here. I would even pay for the motel. In exchange, she can have what she wants from me. Not sex, but I will allow her to strip me and devour me and humiliate me and defile me and then discard me. Peel off my clothes and ream my naked body with your eyes. Read from my slutty skin whatever silent stories might satisfy your dark voyeuristic desires.

And I’ll do the same to him.

When I instructed her that she was to meet Freddie Highmore, to seduce him, to lead him to the motel room with a singular task in mind, to shed his clothes so that I may watch, she smiled, in a confused way, not as if she suspected I was a homosexual, but as if the words made no sense at all to her, as if I was a mad man. Yet she slowly came to understand that I was serious, and she agreed. I told her everything she needed to know, about the set, about the industry, such that she could play her part well. I told her everything she needed to know about Freddie himself, about his tendencies, about how to converse with him. I know him.

She unbuttons his suit pants and as they approach the bed, his pants fall to the floor. My first view of his large naked feet and his boyishly masculine legs, coated in light brown hair. Freddie does wear boxers, they may even be the same ones that I picture him in every night, baby blue in color. My own boxers are pulled down, and I’m stroking myself as they kiss atop the bed. She removes his shirt, discards it on the floor. He is naked now except for his underwear and the tie wrapped around his neck. He’s fucking into her, but from this angle, I can’t enjoy those private pieces of his body. Her hand reaches for the rear of his underwear, teases them down, spanks him, then again and again, producing audible moans. She pushes the underwear down further still, replacing their presence with her finger, which runs around the rim of his tight asshole.

She teases his hole for some time, eventually working her fingertip in and out of it. After just a few moments, he becomes motionless. He surrenders. He stops fucking her and resigns himself completely to the intensity of the intrusion. I am still masturbating when she finally removes her finger and moves out from beneath him. She opens the drawer of the bedside table and removes a blindfold and rubber phallus. She wraps the blindfold around his head and peels the underwear off of his legs, discarding them on the ground.

She has given me everything, and more. There he is, Freddie Highmore, finally at home, naked on his hands and knees at the Bates Motel. The penis I envisioned night after night, hoped to see day after day, is just feet away, dangling between his spread legs. His hairless scrotum hangs too, just below that most intimate of places; even in the shadow of the lamp, I can see the light hairs adorning the rim of his hole, but only for a moment, and they disappear as she moves the phallus to his ass and penetrates him. She is doing far more than I requested of her, showing me images forbidden even to my most obscene masturbation fantasies. She works slowly, sinking the massive phallus into his tight little hole. The phallus is bigger than his own penis, much bigger, though his ass quietly swallows each inch at her command.

Then, she’s gone. She simply puts on her dress and walks out of the motel, leaving the door ajar.

I continue to watch cautiously for a few moments, enjoying my first uninhibited view of his ass, cheeks spread, asshole obscenely stretched by the large rubber cock. But Freddie remains motionless.

Driven by desire, insanity even, I make my way to the door of my own room, crack it open slightly, and peer outside. She is nowhere to be found. I walk outside, underwear still pulled down and latched beneath my balls, and I step into the cold night and then into the next room where Norman Bates waits.

At this distance, I can consume him. Sweat glistens on his back, commingling with the dried blood of the scratches she used to mark him. His penis is erect, hanging there, inches from my face, screaming for my touch. I want to touch it, to lick it, but I don’t want to afford him any pleasure. His scrotum appears hairless even under this close scrutiny, though both balls and penis jut from a neatly trimmed pubic area. I grasp the tip of the phallus plugged in his stretched ass and move it around inside of him. He moans.

I masturbate silently as I move the cock in and out of him. From the next room over, his boyish body was more beautiful than I could have imagined but here in front of me, it looks cheap and used. I watch his asshole stretch to accommodate the cock again and again. His penis is being ignored, dangling between his legs, but he ejaculates first, untouched. I shoot my warm semen into my bare hand. I remove the phallus and rub my wet hand across its length. I place the tip at his rim and ease the rubber penis back into him slowly.

He whines.

Freddie Highmore is Norman Bates, not just in dress, or in table manner, or in appearance. He is Norman Bates, the disturbed, the deviant, who wanders out into the night unknowingly, begging to be emasculated, pleading to be taken and bent and twisted and fucked in the shadows.

As for me, I wake up after nights like these on the bed of a filthy motel room. My body is naked, hard, and stretched, raped by the cold and unforgiving hand of the winter morning sneaking in through a door ajar. A tie is wrapped around my neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was truly a joy for me to write and something out of the ordinary.
> 
> If you enjoyed it, I would love for you to give feedback. Either way, you can read draft of my future work at www.conormonaghan.com


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